


Late Nights

by HappinessIsBlau



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Gen, Self-Harm, not self-harm as in "i am doing this to hurt myself", self-harm as in "my action is causing me physical pain and this was an unintended side effect"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappinessIsBlau/pseuds/HappinessIsBlau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What the fuck are you doing?” Johnny asks, but it doesn’t really sound like a question. It sounds more like a demand for an answer. You jump when you hear his voice and turn around quickly to see him. He was probably asleep ...you should probably feel bad for making so much noise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Nights

**Author's Note:**

> This is a heavily-edited version of the second version of a fic I wrote called "I Hate Boats (But I Love My Best Friend)" which is definitely a Gat/Boss fic (that I didn't really intend to make a Gat/Boss fic). I found the first version to be too boring and the second version to be much too ramble-y and the romance aspect was really out of place so I basically just cut all that out.
> 
> ***This fic contains self-harm. This isn't self-harm as in, "I want to hurt myself" but this is self-harm as in, "I am taking my anger out and the way that I am doing that is harmful to me and I don't care." Please keep that in mind and please don't read this if that is something that upsets you in any way, shape, or form.***

It’s frustrating sometimes. 

You feel like you’ve been transported to the future. Well, you actually have in a way, you guess: it was 2006 when you fell into a coma and it was 2011 when you woke up.  


It isn’t all Motorola Razr phones and Blockbuster anymore. Steve Irwin has been dead for years, now. There’s a new president and he’s not fucking white (finally). It’s culture shock, to say the least. 

(Johnny’s set in his ways – he had fucking frosted tips in 2006, after all – and that definitely helps you feel less out of place when he just refuses to give a shit about the newest stuff and uses the same, beat-to-hell phone that Aisha pleaded with him to upgrade.) 

You shouldn’t be as old as you are. The fact that you seem like a stranger in your own body is both terrifying and infuriating. 

Tonight is a night where you dwell on the latter. You don’t want inflection; you want revenge. There’s no one to pick a fight with, though. It might be the fact that you’ve drank too much, but having to leave Purgatory in order to beat someone to hell sounds like way too much work. 

Instead, you pace. You generally go for walks but besides, it’s raining outside. It fits your mood, really. Purgatory is quiet tonight – most of the other Saints have gone home or to their rooms in the building. The lights are off, save for the dim storm lights in every hallway. You catch your reflection in a pane of glass in the hallway leading to your room and you jump. 

You didn’t recognize yourself at first. That’s a horrible habit that you’ve had in the past few months, but you just can’t take it anymore. Your fist collides with it and it shatters, but that’s not enough. You punch out every bit of glass that you can find in the hallway. You’re numb to the pain shooting through your fingers – it’s cathartic, actually. When you’re finally done, you’re tempted to go find more things to destroy. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” Johnny asks, but it doesn’t really sound like a question. It sounds more like a demand for an answer. You jump when you hear his voice and turn around quickly to see him. He was probably asleep – you totally forgot that he’d been staying at Purgatory since Aisha died and he was “released” from the hospital. You didn’t blame him that he didn’t want to be in that house after what happened. You should probably feel bad for making so much noise. 

“Uh,” you glance down at the blood dripping down your fingers and onto the floor, and then back at him. “Ouch?” you try. He doesn’t look impressed. 

Instead, he turns on the light to the hallway and makes a face. You didn’t notice that blood was on your shirt until now. 

“What the fuck?” he just asks, but it doesn’t sound like a question again. 

“I was pissed?” you answer, but that does sound like a question. It sounds like an excuse that you don’t quite believe. Who ever needs to explain senseless violence to Johnny Gat, after all? 

Johnny just shakes his head and grabs your left wrist and pulls you towards the bathroom. 

“Sit on the goddamn counter or I’ll set you up there myself,” he orders, and you climb up. It must be quite a sight to see all 6+ feet of you up there, but he’s nothing but seriousness and you are a little bit afraid of him right now, actually. 

He holds your left hand in his and picks pieces of glass out of your hand carefully. You feel like a little kid in trouble, sitting up there as he continues to fix up your bloody fingers.

“Johnny, I—“No, shut the fuck up. I don’t know what you were trying to accomplish with that. You know you can’t hold a gun with fuckin’ glass in your fingers?” You’re actually being scolded right now and your face is flushed out of shame and embarrassment. He’s doing such a delicate job, too. 

He doesn’t look up at you when you use your free (and now bandaged) left hand to wipe pathetically at your teary eyes. You tried to stop them by biting your lip and willing them away, but it just isn’t working right now because they’re rolling down your cheeks and down your chin and you’re an ugly crier, you know that. 

Are you ashamed of yourself? Yes, because your self-destructive behavior worried your friend. He spares your pride and pretends like he doesn’t notice, even though you know that he does. 

“Thanks,” you say and your voice is all raspy and hoarse since you’re still crying.

“I can’t let you bleed to death. It’d be fucking annoying for me since I’d have to be the Boss and I fucking hated that, and it’d be embarrassing if you died from something like blood loss from throwing a piss-baby temper tantrum. What the fuck kind of pussy reputation would that give the rest of us?” 

You try to apologize but you just sit on the stupid counter and wipe at your face. You’re an adult, or you’re supposed to be, anyway. You don’t feel like an adult right now. 

“I’m going to have to babysit your ass until morning,” Johnny says. He takes off his shades to wash them and you notice now how tired he looks. 

“You really don’t have to,” you say quietly and he ignores you as he walks out of the room and you follow him. 

He sits on a barstool and you sit down on the one next to him. He turns on the TV and continues to make it a point to ignore you some more. You lean up against the bar and you fold your arms on top of it and rest your head on them. You really are being babysat. Johnny walks around the bar and pours himself a drink. He glances at you now and then pours you one, too. You take it and sip it gingerly. Even though you’ve been drinking all night, it still burns going down. 

He doesn’t say anything to you, but you can tell that he keeps looking at you. He clenches his jaw as if he wants to say something but keeps biting it back. You hope he doesn’t decide to say something, because you know it’ll make you feel bad again. The thought of it makes you feel guilty enough to make your eyes fill up again. 

“Everything’s changed,” you say. 

“Everyone that I know is either dead or doesn’t want anything to do with me,” he counters and you flinch. 

“I’m not,” you say and he turns to you, now. 

“You fucking will be if you keep acting like you have a goddamn death wish.” 

You bury your face in your arms again and he sighs and flips through the TV channels. 

“I hate boats,” you tell him. It’s muffled, since your face is still in your arms.

“I hate swords,” he replies and you can’t help but snicker. He punches you in the arm in response and you smile to yourself. He’s forgiven you, you decide. 

You lift your head and slide closer to him and then put your head on his shoulder. He’s watching a news report about the disappearance of Shogo Akuji and you figure that probably improved his mood, too. 

“I bet he cried and screamed for his dad before he suffocated,” you say out loud to yourself. Johnny snorts and you grin. Yeah, he’s definitely forgiven you. 

“I’m glad your sense of humor hasn’t changed in all these years, Gat.” 

“I’m glad that you’re still a frigid bitch, Boss.” 

You'd feign offense, but you're too tired for that right now. Instead, you just watch that news report and hope that you both inconveniently forget about this in the morning. 

And maybe you'll dream of your friend Johnny tonight instead of boat explosions.


End file.
